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15:58:39 - 2000-03-06

WRITER'S BLOCK 101

Ummmm... the radio thing this morning...did anyone listen???

Anybody???

Nobody????

Cool...nobody....well....I KICKED ASS BABY!!!

YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

(Uncle Bob closes his eyes, tosses a huge grin across his mug and begins dancing his "I KICKED ASS BABY" dance, which is basically just him swaying back and forth with his thumbs jerking erratically in the air)

"La la la la I kicked ass...La la la la la la la la I kicked ass ..."

Actually ... there was nothing to it. I called, barely disguising my voice, and fed him the lines he wanted me to emphasize and ad-libbed the rest. It got the response he needed for a successful show and my day continued.

Once again...we were out of cereal at home. Tonight, when the wife comes home, I'm going to be hiding in the hallway closet with a magic marker. When she opens the door to hang her coat up, I'm going to scream bloody murder, jump out and scrawl "FUCKING RAISIN BRAN" across her forehead in magic marker.

Let's see if I have cereal in the mornin', yessir...

Hell...let's see if I have testicles in the mornin' ...

I got to work where I was just fucking EXHAUSTED. I swear...all morning long I thought I could pass out at any given moment...

OH YEAH...GET THIS....

I go to the gas station this morning, where gas prices have reached an all-time, unbelivable fucking high. I laughed when I pulled up, thinking this was some sort of Candid Camera gig, where they were filming people's reactions to having to pay the equivalent of a fucking car payment to fill up their car. I quickly realized it wasn't and that made my testicles tighten up which is never a good sign.

I went inside the store.

"Good morning sir," the chipper young lady behind the counter said, as if THAT was worth the extra 40 cents a gallon.

"Hey sweetie, take that 'Good Morning, Sir', slather it in Vaseline and cram it up your stinkin' ass," I smiled, slamming my palms down HARD on the counter. "Why the hell am I paying $2 for a gallon of fucking gas, you got a fuckin' answer for me there, Alex Trebek??"

The girl was stunned. I don't think she had ever been talked to this way...not even during the time she was getting cornholed by the entire local junior high basketball team.

"I ...I ... I ....," she stammered.

I decided to finish her sentence.

"What? You're a fucking idiot?? Sweetie ... lemme tell ya something ... I don't pay that kinda money for WHORES, let alone gasoline...So we are gonna have to come to some kinda little agreement here..."

At this point, the girl burst into tears. She ran out from behind the counter, grabbed her coat and keys, called me a "mean, mean man" and informed me that she hoped I did some time in Hell. Then she left in a '75 Rambler whose muffler was dragging the ground and shooting sparks every which way.

Mission accomplished.

I opened the cash drawer, not taking any money, but leaving it available for whoever might have wanted it. I grabbed a Reese's King Size Package of Cholesterol Cups and hit the road. I hadn't noticed, but pop singer Bjork was standing in the corner of the store, getting coffee and batteries for her remote control Ben-Wa Balls.

I pulled out of the gas station, doing 120 mph when I accidently ran off the bridge a block down from the gas station and plunged headfirst into the interstate traffic speeding by below me.

Luckily, the impact jolted me back awake and I found myself back at my desk staring at my computer monitor with the words "Christina suffered from head trauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu" staring back at me and my boss asking me if I needed to go to the doctor.

"Yes. Yes I think I do," I said as I got up from my desk, walked into the supply closet and urinated.

No more late-night Skinamax marathons for me ...

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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